


Snp, Trp, Crsh; an Ode from Me to You

by trickstartmonk



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fight Club Fusion, Band Fic, Gen, M/M, Pre-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 08:08:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16384403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickstartmonk/pseuds/trickstartmonk
Summary: Focus.





	Snp, Trp, Crsh; an Ode from Me to You

Ever looked a stranger in the eye?

Ever fallen in love, just like that?

The quick kind of falling.

Momentum moving against you rather than with you. You see their smile, meet their eye, and snap, trip, _crash._ You're down on the ground, infatuated, staring up adoringly at the one who pushed you down in the first place?

And its the fun, horrible kind of fall, too. Your stomach goes _whoosh_ and jumps into your throat, and your body forgets which way is up. Its the worst type of fall because there's so much movement and adrenaline you never feel the _smack_ of bones and skin on the ground until later. Later being too late, the pain already settled by then.

Anyway.

There's a thing called Fight Club, maybe you've heard?

I'm jumping in place, hopping around. Gotta be in the right mindset here. No place for distraction. Only focus.  _Focus_.

I'm barefoot; we all are in the ring. Every fighter strips their shirt and shoes when they step in and warm up, but never their confidence. Never their bravado or dignity. Hell, that's all we got.

And its cold on my feet. The concrete of the ring. Around us, they shout and make bets. Their yells fade out and drown into the background. They point and cheer, blood hits the floor, those bright flourescent lights beat down. You almost feel like a piece of meat as they call out when you gasp and groan up there. Yeah, its fucking brutal.

It's the best feeling in the world.

I'd equate it to sex. No. It's better than sex. And that's saying something, because not much else is.

Yeah, its better than sex when you walk up there. Better than sex when you take a swing at someone you don't know; a no one just like you, here of his own free will to brawl it out. Maybe its a Walmart employee, or that scrawny kid who works at the copy place downtown. Maybe its someone you've passed by before but never stopped to catch their name or memorize their face or listen to their voice. Maybe its a kid with daddy issues and a trust fund at home. You'd never know.

And isn't that just a little beautiful?

Because out there, okay, out _there_ , exists social rule and norm. Out _there_ is a world functioning with or without you, out  _there_ is a world that maybe sorta spit you out and never looked back. Out there, you and the Starbucks guy'd never of shared anything, let alone blows to the ribs. Out _there_ you never had a chance. Out there you were never equals.

But here?

God, you're both  _nothing_ here. Equals now, in this moment, in the ring, blanketed in jeers and bets and threats. Bloody and boy and barefoot and desperate. Out _here,_ you're the same.

Travie calls out to the fighters, to warn the new meat, remind us the rules. Just like every night at Fight Club. His voice is melodic and assertive. I listen and so does everyone else.

"The first rule of fight club is: You do not talk about Fight Club. The second rule is: You do _not_ talk about fight club", he yells. Everyone nods.

Yes, McCoy, we know.

"Third rule of Fight Club: Someone yells 'Stop!', goes limp, taps out, then the fight is over", and we murmur our agreement. Our voices careful and tentative, ears trained on Travie, but energy levels rising.  _Focus._

"Fourth rule: Only two guys to a fight." He stops and takes a breath. His eyes gleam and his smile curves a little creepily. His voice drops for the last rule and we strain to hear.

"And finally, six: If you're new, you have to fight", he claps his hands together and wishes us good luck before slinks back to the cheering crowd, managing the fights from the shadows.

I'll wait my turn.

I watch three fights, all new kids beating each other to a pulp and thriving under the scrutiny of the crowd.

I watch two younger ones, roughly the same size maul each other like animals. Both skinny, little muscle and dark hair. The darker, nearly black haired kid's got hips and determined eyes. His punches are strong and he kicks quite a bit. His movements are almost fluid and never ending; his performance screams 'desperate'.

The second one, taller and thinner with lighter hair and deep matching eyes, throws powerful, quick punches. Like a monkey. His movements are choppy but threatening all the same. He looks more fragile but fights like he's got something to prove. 

The two bruise each other and aim for the face, kick at each others hips, and try and punch the other's stomach. Several times one of them catches the other bad in the ribs or cheek and one sways, but neither fall. They absorb each other's punches impressively. I see promise for both.

I'm watching the tall, lighter one finally crumble to his knees and a coughing black haired victor listen in awe to the cheers when I feel a hand at my elbow. Huh. The taller one tapped out.

"You're next. Still want him?"Travie asks quietly in my ear.

In the ring, the ref grabs and extends the shorter one's hand to show everyone 'yes, he won'. The kid spits out something bloody on the concrete and whoops. He smiles big and crinkly before helping his opponent up off the ground and extending his hand too. The ref rolls her eyes but quietly asks the victor's name, and after a momentary silence, announcing to the club, "Brendon!"

"Yeah. I want him." I answer. Travie nods and brushes past me.

I walk up to the ring and greet the exiting newcomers. They look fucked. Brendon, the winner tonight, is holding the other fighter close to him still. His arm still looped around a ( _pissy_ ) opponent. The taller one doesn't look actually upset though, because he leans in and rests a lot of his weight on Brendon when his injuries don't look too dibilitating (yet). The winner's still got a big smile and a busted lip. The lankier guy smiles when he doesn't think the other's looking, and the two hobble off together.

I brush against them through the ropes of the ring and Brendon wishes me luck. Bloody and toothy and sweet smile.

I say "thanks, Brendon" because I remember what it was like to get attention of a respected member too, and the kid's smile goes blinding. The skinnier kid grumbles at my attention and I hold back a smirk.  _Jealous._

Thosetwo are gonna be fun.

I finally step foot in the ring. The concrete stings my feet a little already, but tonight I'm excited.

I'm a long time Fight Club member, I fight well; always been considered a 'scrappy' guy. I'm generous under the spotlight, too. Give my punches freely, knuckle to the temple to knock em' out. I've got great focus in the ring.

But all these things don't mean as much when you're a part time fighter. I still go to work weekdays, and I only come in on Saturdays. I'm good and respected here, but I still have a life. 

 

There's a kid I want to fight, though.

He spends all his time here, almost like he's got no where else to go. He's been called an unlikely winner because he's a little redhead guy, stout, and a little chubby. He shouldn't be so good a fighter, but apparently he is. 

I want to fight him.

Lose or win, I want to fight him. I requested the fight from Travie and he chuckled and told me to 'go get him, tiger'.

So here I am.

I see messy red hair step up into the ring. He's paler than I thought. A softness to his stomach and he doesn't look like a fighter unless you saw the scars and bruises and cuts and blood on his torso. Without them he's look cherubic maybe. Kissable.

Fuck.

_Focus._

We shake hands.

He says, "m' Patrick" and I tell him I'm Pete.

He says 'I know' and the whistle blows but I'm not ready for it.

He punches me square in the jaw, then the stomach, then the temple. My vision is swimming by the time he kicks me in kidney.

Mother _fucker._

I've always loved a challenge.

It's been maybe 2 minutes before I'm tapping out. I don't know how many hits I got in, but my knuckles burn and I'm on my knees.

He wins, the ref extends his hand as victor, and we stumble out. Side by side. We put on our shoes, keep our shirts off until we cool a bit more.

I decide to go out back for some air and he goes too. 

We lean on the wall next to one another, and our skin is hot still.

When I look over he's already looking at me, and I laugh when I see the blossoming bruise high on his cheek bone.

He's thankfully a good sport because he points at my face and grins too.

We must look ridiculous out here, shirtless, bloodied and newly bruised in the cold night.

"God, Chicago's beautiful", he laughs.

"Amen", I say.

He glances sideways at me, says "wanna catch a drink?", and I say yes, because I do.

And he smiles quietly at the ground for a moment before smacking his hands onto his thighs and looking at me. He motions back into the dingy warehouse, back into the screams, and for a moment I forgot where we were. It's so much quieter with the stars.

I nod, we go inside, grab our shirts and belongings, and walk to the bar.

I limp a little on my left knee and he on his right hip where I jabbed him, and my body aches.

It feels great though, better than sex.

At the bar we sit beside each other again, and I find he's a lively fellow when liquor loosens his tongue. He's chatty and we laugh. When we make eye contact, there it is.

That horrible, sweet momentum moving against me rather than with me.

There I am, on my knees in the ring, looking up, impressed, at the full time fighter who beat me.

There I am, under the stars, heart beating hard from the fight and a blush threatening my face.

There I am, two hours after actually meeting the guy from the Club everyone's been talking about, sitting in a bar giggling about peanuts with him pressed against my side.

There I am, falling.

Snap, trip, crash,  _falling_ for a fucking stranger.

_Focus._

_Focus._

_Too late._

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> comments are cool!!


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